


A Study in Quantitative Analysis

by tunteeton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Established Relationship, For Science!, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 23:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7127114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunteeton/pseuds/tunteeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A most rigorous scientific study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Quantitative Analysis

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a one-shot and does not belong to my omega verse series.

“Where are you on the scale?” John had his pen poised, ready to check the correct boxes. It took Sherlock a couple of seconds to stop pacing and concentrate on him.

“Hmm?”

“The scale, Sherlock,” John prompted him, writing a big angry red x in the box named _Concentration: 1 (less than five seconds)_.

“Three,” Sherlock answered, his voice considering, and John wrote that down, too, checking his watch as he did so. It had been two hours, and Sherlock was starting to get more restless by minute.

“It would help if you actually told me the scale,” John pointed out once again, not really hoping for such miracles. “Are we shooting for five? Ten?”

His only answer was a gesture by a lazy hand, a languid movement that went on a bit longer than it should have. “Not important for you to know. Could screw the results.”

 _Not co-operative. Awful innuendos,_ John put on the free box on the first page. The boxes had been his idea. Something unexpected always came up. Sherlock snorted.

“You're too sensitive.”

“Says the man who complained about the fabric of his shirt just a moment ago.”

“Common cotton,” Sherlock answered, shivering. “Grates on my skin, it does. I hope you wrote that in there, too.”

“I did. If it’s such a bother, why don’t you take it off?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Sherlock said, and John got the feeling he was concentrating a little too much on the articulation, “I don't have to.” He walked up and down the room, pausing only to study their closed, locked and barred windows. That, too, had been John’s idea. “The rest of the list, please.”

“We just finished it!”

“I'm aware. Stop complaining. You agreed on this.”

“I agreed on you not burning down the kitchen.”

“Everything has a price. We have time to kill, forms to fill. Would you rather sit there and feel uncomfortable while trying not to stare at the clock every few seconds?”

The sad fact was, Sherlock had a point there. Waiting was the worst part. Even cleaning up afterwards was better than the first hours, even now when it was all familiar. He gave up. 

“Fine. Hunger.”

“Five. Any more of those sandwiches?”

“You devoured five of them not half an hour ago. Take a pause, or you're going to regret at least half of them.”

“Hrmph. My metabolism will take care of that. The next item?”

“Impulses.”

“Two,” said Sherlock and sounded very proud of himself, twirling around as he did so. John hid a smile but marked down the given number anyway. Control tended to be one of the first things Sherlock lost without even realising it. John wondered what he should be adding to each answer to get the real number.

“Pain.”

“One.”

Good. He hated that one.

“Bathroom.”

Sherlock didn't seem to hear, or maybe he just opted for ignoring him. His little dance had brought him face to face with John’s chair, and while stepping around it he almost collided with the cabinet. One step back turned into three, and then he abruptly stopped to inspect the little frames on the near wall. John frowned. That could be absentmindedness, all of his attention starting to turn inwards, or maybe he was already losing his footing and trying to cover it. Whatever it was, Sherlock himself didn’t approve. He sighed, a quiet and just a bit self-deprecating sound, long fingers wrapped around the table top, shaking a little.

He wouldn’t approve of John pointing it out either. It would come up in the questionnaire sooner or later. Better to ignore it for now. 

“Bathroom,” John repeated, louder this time. Sherlock froze like an animal in the woods. John tried not to notice what that did to the arch of his back. Not the right time. They had agreed. And if Sherlock was starting to lose it, the last thing they needed was John going mad with lust.

“Oh. That reminds me.”

Sherlock scurried away, not bothering to close the door as he went. John sat and waited, stonefaced. After a moment of consideration, he scribbled a couple of words into another open field. It was time for an experiment of his own. Quickly, he ran a handkerchief over his face and neck and tossed it onto the bed, hoping Sherlock wouldn't notice it among their perpetually messy sheets. When control slipped away, instincts took over. And if Sherlock was where John thought he was, the napkin would soon be put to a better use.

“Six,” said Sherlock's voice in the bathroom, managing to fit at least three additional vowels into the word. John checked his watch again, then marked down the answer along with the time. Not shooting for five, then.

Sherlock steadied himself on the door frame, blinking at the low light. John made sure to keep his voice even. 

“Balance.” The long fingers immediately let go of the door. A slow, careful step into the room, as if trying to prove everything was fine. Sherlock had once told him it felt like he was on a boat, rocked by continuous waves constantly changing direction. The hair on John's arms raised to attention.

Sherlock stopped after just one step, stared at the wall somewhere over John's left shoulder. Moved his lips as in a whisper, blinked slowly. Took another hesitant step towards John, halted, shook his head.

John hated seeing him so lost, hated this unpredictable tide of a wait and his own body’s animalistic responses to it. Right now, he was witnessing his partner in distress, and what did he want to do? Tackle him down and increase that distress tenfold. His tongue felt alien in his mouth. Speak. Take care. Don't scare.

“Do you need to stop?”

That evoked a hurt glance, as if the whole idea was utterly preposterous. “Of course not. Just give me a moment.” 

“Please sit down at least.”

Like a robot, Sherlock turned around and flopped on the bed. John tried not to feel excited seeing him there, seeing him give up so easily. Stupid alpha hormones, suggesting stupid alpha things. Still, he checked the box marked _obedience_. Sherlock had entertained a particular contempt against it, but they had both agreed it was an important variable anyway. Well, maybe John had agreed a bit more than Sherlock had.

“I – what was the question again?” Two hands on his lower abdomen, massaging over his shirt in little circles. John licked his dry lips, a reflexive act. Do not think of Sherlock’s body. Do not think of the long, clean lines of his figure, broken by helpless shivering. Do not think. Stay on target. What was the target again? Oh, that.

“Balance.”

“Um,” Sherlock said and blushed. “I think one. No, five. Or maybe eight. You choose.”

That, too, was one of the code words they had discussed earlier, and another sore spot for Sherlock. He was an independent creature, proud of his own reasoning and logic. Heat took all of that away. Already, he was willing to take orders from John, ready to bow to his judgement. John pondered a moment, marked down the eight and then turned the page. 

On the bed, Sherlock found the napkin and raised it against his nose, sniffing loudly. John hid a smile, pretended to be absolutely engrossed in the papers. It was nice to feel appreciated.

“I think you should get comfortable.”

Sherlock made an eager, agreeable sound but didn't actually do anything apart from giving John a curious glance.

“You were ravenous earlier. Would you like something to eat?”

“Two,” answered Sherlock, although it took John a moment to understand that had been an answer. So the hunger was subsiding, then?

Good.

He pinched his nose. No. It wasn't good. It just meant this was moving forward.

Good.

The paper. Read the damn paper.

 _Check limits._ It advised him.

“You're beautiful,” he said, and while it hadn't been what he'd meant to say it made Sherlock purr in delight. “I enjoy looking at you.”

Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt immediately, the napkin forgotten for now. “So look.”

“Impulses, four,” John told him. Sherlock groaned.

“Don't you play with me. Also, make that a five.”

“Not playing. Take the shirt off and tell me how you feel.”

“Oh, we're already on the last page,” Sherlock realised, letting the offending piece of clothing fall to the floor. “Numbers, please.”

John smiled fondly. Scientist to the very last, this creature was. He read the list aloud. Sherlock listened with his eyes closed, patting the mattress when John finished.

“Come here.”

“No.”

That gained him an almost-stare. “Why?”

“Because we're only two hours in. It’s too early. If I told you to take your trousers off, what would you do?”

Ten fingers dug into the pillows. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Sherlock started, but seemed unsure how to finish. He didn't release the pillows, however. Where was John's pen? Oh, here it was. In his hand. Go figure.

He drew a pair trousers on the box and crossed them over. Seemed easier that way.

“If I told you to touch yourself,” and his voice broke. His own trousers had a situation happening. Two hours. Way too early. Don’t hurt. Keep going.

Sherlock squirmed on the bed, staring at him with blown pupils. “No.”

“Wow.”

“Yes.”

This didn't seem like a research paper anymore. John wasn't quite sure how the crude drawing of a little person with a big cock had ended up there. It seemed a very happy individual indeed. He crossed that out, too. Keep going, Watson. Just keep going. Don’t think of those black, black eyes.

The next question seemed slightly less dangerous.

“Sense of smell.”

Sherlock was off the bed in an instant, advancing on John like a tiger prowling, circling the chair he was sitting on. His lids were heavy, his voice rumbling. “You smell like iron. Hot iron in cool water. And thunder. It's a wonder they allow you on the streets. You smell like a promise of danger, even from across the room.”

John swallowed. The situation in his trousers was becoming dire. Less dangerous question his arse. He should have predicted this. “A number, Sherlock.”

The damnable man was behind John's back now, and suddenly a hot breath tickled his neck, raising every single hair to attention. He stared ahead, squeezing the pen like a lifeline.  
“I'm getting there,” Sherlock whispered into his ear. “Up close, it's a different story. For me, you smell like home. Not boring home, mind you,” and that had to be a hint of lips and teeth against his skin. Hot breath hit his nerve-endings like soft fire.

“But smoke, wood burning. Dust on books. And still, the iron. Just under surface, always the iron.” And that _definitely_ was a bite, a quick nip, but still enough to make him jump. The pen snapped in two.

Sherlock was already half-way across the room. “Nine, John.”

“Take your clothes off.” It wasn't his voice saying the words. It wasn't his mouth moving. His ears were ringing, and Sherlock was a pale spectre, too daunting to look at but always dancing at the edge of his vision.

“John.”

“Take them off or I will rip them off.”

A rustle of fabric, and then the scent hit him. Acidity, soon replaced by soothing familiarity. He blinked, drew a long breath. His face, his whole body felt like a wooden mask. It was a sensation he was very familiar with.

“Come back here.”

“John.”

“Just do as I say.”

Careful steps brought Sherlock standing just behind his back. Not touching, waiting. The heady smell of arousal lingering around him really didn’t help. John let his head fall backwards, peeking up at him rather than turning around. Sherlock’s curls were messy, his cheeks red, his eyes black and wide. John's voice was more growl than words.

“That wasn't very fair.”

“Why?”

“Goddammit Sherlock, I'm trying to help you. We had a deal.”

“I was just answering the question.”

“No. No you weren't.”

“Nine, John. I'd rate my sense of smell a solid nine. There’s your answer.”

It turned out that having an alpha and an omega on closed quarters, unable to escape from each other for several hours while the omega’s heat was descending, did have consequences. Someone would snap. For a second, all John saw was rage red.

“Sit down.”

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look.

“I'm not sitting on the floor, John.”

“I didn't mean the floor.”

“You're already using the chair.” Rational, the man thought himself so rational.

“I'm well aware. Sit down, Sherlock.”

A low chuckle, almost a purr, escaped Sherlock. He walked around John and sat primly on his lap, back against John’s chest, all legs and ribs and long long arms, very naked indeed.

“All right,” John whispered up to his ear. “Here's how it's going to be. We are two hours in. What was our target?”

Sherlock squirmed against his chest. “Your shirt is coarse, John. Not to mention your trousers. I can feel you. That must hurt. Take them off.”

His hands found bony hips, drew them close. Little by little, Sherlock settled in place. He had been right. It did hurt. That was good, helped keep him grounded.

“No. The target?”

Sherlock gave a petulant sigh, wiggled a little.

“Three. Three hours. I'm starting to think we were overconfident.”

John allowed himself a smile, let it into his voice as well.

“You mean you. You were overconfident. Anyway, that's our goal. So listen. No more teasing.”

“Then what the fuck am I doing in your lap?” Another wiggle accompanied the exasperated question.

“Swearing now? I'd mark that down if I had free hands for that survey of yours. It's simple, Sherlock. You're in a stage where you need contact. You're restless and impulsive. I'd grade you right now, but you still haven't told me the scale.”

“Eight,” Sherlock answered, sounding a bit breathless. “But why does it have to be here? Come to bed.”

“You _really_ think that's a good idea? Helpful for waiting, or gathering more data?”

“Oh.” Sherlock fell quiet for a moment. “I concede your point. Two hours, you say?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock groaned, an action that morphed into a full-body tremble against John's chest and lap. Dangerous, that. He grasped a dead-grip on the shivering hips. His mouth tasted like blood. Had he bitten himself? He didn't remember. His body was on a breaking point, his heart going hundred miles a minute.

_Don’t think. Concentrate on him._

“Stop it, you’re hurting me. Spread your legs.”

“Oh _God_ John.” But Sherlock did, hastened to move both of his knees over John's. The pressure eased slightly. The cloud of arousal only grew thicker.

“Fifty-five minutes, you bastard. You promised me a week without anything burning down in the kitchen if we pull this off. I'm going to get my fucking week. So stop squirming. I'll help you.”

He turned his head until he saw them in the mirror on the cabinet door. It was an awkward angle, with the chair partially hidden behind a side table, but so worth it. Sherlock sprawled wantonly over him, his head thrown back over John's shoulder, his eyes closed in concentration, his eyebrows furrowed. Beautiful, beautiful creature his Sherlock was.

“Shh,” John whispered, letting his fingers travel gently over the heated skin of his lover. “We'll go through the list once more. That should keep you here, with me, for a little while longer. For every answer, you get a reward. How does that sound to you?”

“Good,” not even a whisper, just a shaky inhalation. “Thank you.”

“That's a good boy,” John told him, even though he felt weird saying that, even though Sherlock pretended he hated hearing it. Something wet dripped on the floor. John hid a smile into the convenient shoulder in front of his face.

“Concentration.”

“You. I mean, nine.”

“That's very good, Sherlock. Keep your hands on my thighs. Where do you want your reward?”

Little jiggling in a certain area was the only response he got because even like this, there were words Sherlock didn't say. Not before they were torn out of him, not before his limits were eradicated by a torching need.

“I didn't expect anything less,” John confessed, happily obliging. He moved his hand slowly up and down until Sherlock arched away from his lap, shivering again, grasping the fabric of John’s trousers with shaking fingers. “ _John._ ”

“Hunger,” John whispered into his ear, making sure to let his lips graze the lobe, never ending the slow, slow movement of his hand. It was a fine line they were treading here. Too much would take them both over, while too little was practically torture at this point.

“Zero,” Sherlock moaned.. “Please, John, I--”

“Shh, I've got you now, you're doing great.” He let his other hand travel up from Sherlock's lap until it met a hard pebble of a nipple. He risked a glance at the mirror.

Oh _God_ that was a mistake. There wasn’t an inch of Sherlock that didn’t scream imminent orgarm. Forty-five minutes. Nine times five minutes. There were impossible tasks, and then there was this.

“Impulses,” he forced out, twisting the nipple, and a loud moan escaped Sherlock, leaving him breathless and panting, his legs spread as wide as they could go, his hips thrusting into John’s hand.

“Need,” came the answer, “I – nine – John I can't, please – nine. Nine.”

John's mouth was going on autopilot now. “So good,” he mumbled. “So perfect. I'm going to take you right here, just like this. Going to make you scream.”

Sherlock apparently agreed, if the frenzied whimpering rising from him was anything to go by. He started struggling, looking for the promised release. That brought John back. Danger.

He forced his hands down, back to Sherlock's hips, steadying him. “Nine,” he said, letting a hint of command into his voice. “Nine isn't the top of the scale, isn't it? Slow down. You need to slow down. I know you can. Pain, Sherlock.”

The feverish creature in his lap stopped wriggling in confusion. “I – what?”

“Are you in any pain?” 

“No, just empty.”

He started the slow movement of his left hand again, so slow he hoped Sherlock wouldn't immediately notice.

“So that's a zero, then?”

“I guess so. John?”

“Hmm?”

“Screw the data.”

He smiled a wicked smile, letting his right hand roam lower, between Sherlock's legs. So wet. He was so wet there. The third hour had turned out to be an impossible target, but it seemed there wasn’t any real need for it either. Sherlock was ready.

“I’m planning on screwing the test subject. Much better that way” Circling, circling, his fingertips coated in Sherlock's heat, his left hand picking up a little faster rhythm. Sherlock's hips buckled, trapped between the two promises. Air escaped his lungs in a violent rush.

“Like this, yes,” Sherlock's voice hitched. “Now. Please. Get rid of your jeans.”

“No.”

“ _John_!”

“I've got everything I need here. Settle down. We aren't done.”

Slowly, carefully John buried two fingers into his lover. He drew a deep breath, tried not to think of his own painfully over-aroused state and directed a low growl into Sherlock's ear.

“No way am I going to let you go for that long. You have two perfectly fine hands. Open the damn zipper.”

Sherlock squirmed. “While you’re - are you serious?”

“Trust me, I’ve rarely been more serious. You’ve been teasing me long enough. Open the zipper, Sherlock.”

It took longer than just letting Sherlock go and doing it himself would have, but hearing his little whimpers, feeling his shaking hands, was so much better. It was a rare treat, having Sherlock so beside himself. At the moment, John approved of science wholeheartedly.

And then he was free, and it was only fair to reward Sherlock with a couple of quick, steady pulls.

“A word of warning,” Sherlock panted as soon as he got his breath back. “This isn’t going to last long. I’m - I feel like - just do it already.”

It took the last scraps of John’s control not to ram into him in one careless thrust. But Sherlock had been right, he was hot and wet and so very ready for this, and soon he was sitting securely in John’s lap, his legs trembling, his insides working around John’s cock like it was the very last thing they’d ever do. It was brilliant, and also overwhelming.

John was about a hair from coming. Who could have known filling forms could be such a stimulant? This was turning into the world’s quickest fuck after what felt like the world’s longest foreplay. Desperately, he squeezed his eyes shut, tried to postpone the inevitable. The world was made of the sounds and the scents they made, intermingled. Sherlock’s feet wrapped around his, Sherlock’s hands pulled him closer.

“Don’t you fucking dare to move,” John hissed, keeping him tightly in place. “Don’t you even try.”

“Too late,” Sherlock answered, sounding a bit panicked. “I’m, John, fuck!” And his neck arched, the muscles in his abdomen all tightened, and then he was trashing, demanding John go even deeper, almost toppling the chair over in his desperation.

He didn’t have a chance after that. The things Sherlock’s body did to him, coupled with the sounds that escaped him - escaped both of them - pushed him over in a heartbeat. He thrust up once, twice, and that was all it took.

It was, quite simply, brilliant. And as fast as it came, it also left them, sweaty and out of breath, slumped against each other and the brave, long-suffering chair.

“John?” A little slurred, a little drunk. Beautiful.

“Hmm?”

“Will you _now_ come to bed with me? And take that stupid shirt off?”

He did. And a day later, when Sherlock’s heat had diminished and they dared to unbar the windows, they found a ruined questionnaire under the chair and a pen snapped in half close by. Sherlock studied the papers, his brow furrowed.

“Looks like we need to repeat the study,” he said. “The results are inconclusive at best, and illegible at worst. Stick figures? Really, John. This is no way to document scientific data.”

Lying on the bed, John stretched his hands and feet in bliss. A repeat sounded like an excellent idea. A bit later, perhaps?

“Any time you want, love. Any time you want.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave some love and/or visit my [Tumblr](http://tunteeton.tumblr.com) where I post about my writing and reblog a lot of lovely fan art.


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